The Romance of Atlantis (12 page)

Brittulia hesitated for a moment. “Virtue,” she said thoughtfully, “is humility, penitence, chastity, mercy, honor, charity, honesty.”

Salustra laughed. “How hagridden thou art with the morals of an antique order, Brittulia. Dost thou not know that virtue, as thou dost express it, was imposed by the strong upon the weak? The strong are few in number; the weak many. The strong, to maintain their supremacy, invented virtue. Not for their own use, however. The strong have no need of virtue. But imposing it upon the credulous, who are many, they rob them of thought, courage and ambition.”

She laid her hand kindly upon Brittulia’s shoulder, smiling grimly at the virgin’s involuntary shrinking, as though at the touch of a serpent. “Thou art too strong, Brittulia,” she said, “to be virtuous, too noble to be humble, too honest to need a conscience, too clean to wallow in remorse. Only the feeble, the incompetent, the subjected have need of virtue.”

They went out into the gardens, which, though smaller, were not surpassed by the luxurious gardens of the Palace. Salustra, with a passion for roses, was delighted at the many rare varieties. Brittulia, preening with a collector’s pleasure, cut a particularly large rose for Salustra. The Empress inhaled the scent with gratification. “Thank you,” she said. “This I call a virtue.”

Tears of relief filled Brittulia’s eyes when the Empress took her departure. Brittulia went back into her garden, alone.

On a graveled path lay the dying rose, which had fallen from Salustra’s hand. Brittulia shuddered, stepped aside as though a serpent had risen in her path.

“Loti has been here,” she said aloud. She began to think. I saw a threat in her eyes, she thought. She smiled, but under that smile her words were flavored with gall and poison. She tells me that I am a free woman; free now, but how free for the future?

She put her hand to her throat; her fingers closed about the opal necklace, and for a moment her muscles tensed as though she contemplated wrenching the Empress’ gift from her flesh. She moved to a mirror and stared at herself intently. She saw a pale, tight-lipped woman, small-breasted, too thin perhaps, but there was a hint of beauty in the wide blue eyes and the thick bronze hair. Her neck was a downy white, the rainbowed opals blending with the warm ivory of her skin. She touched the gems again, but this time her touch was gently appraising, soft, tender.

She again relapsed into thought. If she consented to Salustra’s request, she would be forced into a world she loathed, a world of cynicism, impiety, incontinence, lust, greed, indecency, luxury. She recoiled at the thought, even though her slumbering blood tingled with a terrible and secret desire.

However, she was too repressed to acknowledge the rising clamor of natural desires. She was struck only with her own burning virtue. She knew that Tyrhia was still innocent; it would be her duty to preserve that virtue even while she guided Tyrhia through the contamination of the city. Was it not a task worthy of a dedicated virgin? Sati would never forgive her if she refused. What, turn an innocent girl over to dissolute companions, when she, Brittulia, could save her? What folly, what cruelty, what wickedness! She began to long for the morrow feverishly.

The vision of the Empress rose before her mind’s eye.

She remembered, now, the weariness of that haggard face, the beautiful eyes so tragic and bitter behind that mocking smile. A rare emotion befell Brittulia. A wave of pity swept over that frozen heart, and its locked gates stirred, moved ajar. The Empress, in her wisdom, had recognized virtue for the mutable thing it was.

11

Tyrhia found the Empress and Mahius waiting in the dimness of Salustra’s apartment. A breeze blew in from the sea, carrying with it the ceaseless murmur of the breaking tide and eddies of mist.

Salustra smiled cheerfully at her sister and made her comfortable. “Dost thou have any inkling why I have called thee here, Tyrhia?” she asked.

“None, Salustra,” answered the girl, revealing in that instant how totally insulated she was from the flood of state affairs. A sense of uneasiness took possession of her, and her eyes wavered uncertainly.

Salustra held her sister’s hand between hers. “I have told thee from childhood, Tyrhia, that we do not live for ourselves but for Atlantis, and that when it was politic I would give thee in marriage to one worthy of thee.” She paused dramatically. “I have found that one.”

Tyrhia stared stonily at the Empress, and her jaw tightened. “And suppose I should refuse?”

Salustra laughed involuntarily. “Refuse? Thou? Poor child, what hast thou to say about what I decide for thee?

But, come, thou hast not yet asked me for whom I destine thee?”

Her expression was so kind, so gentle, that Tyrhia was suddenly suffused with a wild and delirious hope. She well knew that little escaped that keen eye. Could it be possible that the Empress had guessed her secret?

“In two days the Emperor Signar will be in Lamora,” said Salustra. “And to him I shall betroth thee. What aileth thee, girl?”

For Tyrhia had leapt to her feet, her face white and convulsed. She stretched out trembling hands to Salustra. “No, no, not he, Salustra!” she cried. “I cannot leave Lamora, I cannot go into that frozen wilderness. Wouldst send me away friendless, alone, at the mercy of a barbarian? Oh, Salustra, if thou didst ever love me …” She faltered, and began to sob silently.

Salustra regarded her without emotion but with a mild sort of curiosity. She turned to the ubiquitous Mahius. “The chit loves someone in Lamora,” she said coldly.

Tyrhia stood as though stricken to stone.

“Whom dost thou love, Tyrhia?” asked Salustra in amusement.

Tyrhia continued to weep, her slight figure racked with sobs, her hands covering her face. Salustra waited, unmoved, indifferent. After a few moments, Tyrhia stopped sobbing and looked appealingly to her sister.

“Whom dost thou love?” Salustra repeated.

Tyrhia gulped. “He is worthy of me, Salustra,” she said. “He is of royal blood, cousin to the King of Dimtri. He would bring no dishonor upon me. He is Erato, the poet.”

Mahius, hitherto an uneasy bystander, gave vent to a muffled cry of horror. He looked at Salustra. The birthmark on her cheek had turned scarlet, but her mouth was a thin, colorless line.

Tyrhia shrank back in fear, her hands extended as though she would ward off a blow. She sank to her knees and knelt quaking before Salustra.

For moments absolute silence reigned in the chamber, then Mahius spoke earnestly. “Great Majesty,” he murmured, “have mercy upon this child, who, like thee, is a daughter of the great Lazar.”

Salustra made an impatient gesture. She laid her hand upon Tyrhia’s shoulder and shook her. “Cease thy quaking, little fool,” she said roughly. She seized the girl’s slender wrists. “Look at me! Hath that man spoken one word of love to thee?”

The girl’s hand fell upon her breast. “Not one word,” she cried brokenly. “He does not even know that I love him.”

Salustra flung the girl from her contemptuously, and Tyrhia lay where she fell, in a sobbing heap. “If I thought that he had tampered with the little idiot, I would have him drawn and quartered.” She began to pace the chamber floor. Mahius, gaunt in his crimson robes, waited in silence. At length, she stopped beside Tyrhia and touched her disdainfully with her foot. “Cease thy maudlin tears, Tyrhia.” she said imperiously. “What canst thou know of love, little virgin? And mark this. Tyrhia, if thou shouldst as much as look upon that man so that he may know of the delirium for him. I shall have him summarily removed. Dost thou understand me?”

The girl pushed herself to her knees. Her hair fell over her tearful face in a golden shower. She nodded her head weakly. After a moment, she rose, tears still streaming from her eyes. But as she turned her head, her eyes began to shine with a new determination.

7

Salustra still reclined upon her couch, though it was nearly noon. Deep shadows lay under her eyes, her face was drawn, her lips almost colorless in the remorseless light of day…She lifted her hand in languid acknowledgment of the High Priestess Jupia’s obeisance. Jupia was an extremely tall woman. She did not seem to possess the body of a woman, so straight and spare were the lines of her figure. She wore a headdress of crimson silk, which entirely concealed her gray hair and framed a gaunt face with expressionless steel-blue eyes. She held her hands concealed in the wide, gold-banded sleeves of her red robes. She was attended by two virgins in blue robes. The obeisance she gave the Empress had in it a contemptuous deference, as though her spirit protested the honor. Salustra listlessly giving permission, Jupia seated herself near the Empress’ couch, her virgin escort standing motionless behind her chair.

“I grant thee fifteen minutes, Jupia,” said the Empress coldly. “So get to the point.”

A slave girl stood behind the Empress, waving a huge fan; another handmaiden knelt beside the couch and brushed Salustra’s hair to a lustrous sheen. Another attended her nails, rubbing a perfumed liquid upon the finger tips. Jupia surveyed her mistress with barely concealed disapproval, her eye moving slowly from the beautiful face to the half-naked body.

“What I have to say, Majesty, will not take long,” she said stiffly.

Salustra yawned deliberately. “That wine!” she exclaimed. “The grapes must have been breathed upon by Loti. At any rate, her sour breath was evident in it.”

Sati, the supreme deity, had a multitude of earthly lovers and offspring. Her children were Loti, queen of the unrepentant dead; the gentle Mayhita, patroness of chaste women and little children; Detria, goddess of the harvest; Parenalia, goddess of earthly love; the virginal Denia, patroness of the arts and sciences; and Iberia, goddess of war and virility. There were three supernatural regions in religious lore. One was Drulla, the place of anguish and fire, over which Loti presided in her castle of flame, attended by her handmaidens, Hatred, Fear, Debauchery and Crime. To that dread abode went the wicked, the unrepentant, the cowards and the traitors. The second region was Crystu, land of spirits who had not finished their work on earth or who, proven worthy, prepared themselves for eternal bliss in the halls of Litia, where they would bask forever in the glorious light of Sati, whose palace was the sun. None falling into the flames and icy blackness of Drulla could ever escape. Few went directly to Litia. Those few were brave and gallant men who died in war, chaste and holy virgins, the High Priestess, women who died in childbirth, and the imperial family. All deities were feminine, but all had earthly lovers, except Denia. Masculinity was never deified. The pontiff was always a woman, her attendants always virgins. She ruled a priesthood of celibate men, and to these subordinates she assigned the lesser duties of cajoling the faithful.

Jupia lived in a dark palace within the shadow of the glittering Temple of Sati. She was never seen upon the streets except closely veiled and in her ceremonial litter. Before her litter walked the priests in their black and crimson robes, their heads bent, their hands folded on their breasts. It was considered a mortal offense to pry with curious eyes into the interior of the litter, and it was the most evil luck to listen, even casually, to the chanting of the priests in public places. Jupia moved in a cloud of superstition and fear. Her priestly attributes were wisdom, symbolized by a staff entwined by a green serpent; chastity, symbolized by the doves that flew unmolested through the temple; and immortality, exemplified by an eternal flame in the temple altar.

All this was so much mumbo jumbo to Salustra, and Jupia well knew this, as she examined the Empress’ remark for a hidden meaning.

“The wine was from the grapes in my own garden, great Salustra,” said the High Priestess in a sadly reproving tone.

“Then I know that Loti breathed upon them!” exclaimed Salustra with a wry face. “Bah! Do not look so outraged, Jupia. Dost think I am insinuating thou didst poison them for my special benefit?”

Jupia’s pale lips moved as though she were intoning a silent prayer.

Salustra gave her an impatient smile. “Art praying for my soul, Jupia? Do not, I implore thee! Loti already hath first claim upon it, and thy prayers will merely heighten the flames. What is thy business with me?”

“What I have to say will not take long, great Salustra,” repeated Jupia in a harsh voice. “But thy mighty father was always willing to listen to my prophecies and to my advice. What he did, thou mightst well do.”

Salustra inclined her head impatiently without speaking.

“Two nights ago I had an awful dream,” went on the Priestess, “but it was more like a vision. The air was hot, sultry, molten—”

“The heat was intense. No wonder thou didst have a bad dream.”

For a moment hatred, unconcealed, shone in Jupia’s eyes.

“Thy spare diet is enough to give thee a thousand horrors.” The Empress yawned.

Jupia’s thin hands clenched under her red robe. “I am not given to either horrors or bad dreams, Majesty,” she said harshly. “My conscience is clean, my life chaste, my thoughts virtuous, my couch unpolluted—”

“Then I should have your nightmares.” Salustra smiled. “But I swear to thee that I sleep like a babe on its mother’s bosom.”

The two women regarded each other intently, Salustra faintly smiling, the Priestess rigid and silent. Then Jupia resumed, in a controlled monotone. “The night was sultry. It seemed that I drowsed, and yet in a moment I was awake again, my blood running like ice through my veins.” She paused. Salustra made a gesture for her to continue. “And then, in a cloud of light, I saw thy glorious father, the mighty Lazar.”

She paused again and gave Salustra a glance.

The Empress lay back on her cushion and yawned once more. “I shall have the walls of his tomb examined,” she said dryly.

Jupia’s eyes flashed. “I saw him,” she repeated. “He was wearing the twelve-pointed crown of Atlantis, and there was a star on each point, glittering like points of flame. His face was majestic, but there were tears in his eyes. The dim light shone on him as it would have shone on a mortal.” Her face was pale and she visibly trembled.